The Man at St Bart's
by SherlockianGirl
Summary: Stamford reflects on his first meeting with Sherlock Holmes at St. Bart's hospital, and remembers the events leading to his introduction of a certain doctor and the man he met in the laboratories.


I had been studying at St. Bartholomew's Hospital for nearly five years before I first heard the name of Sherlock Holmes. He was then unknown to the world, and seemed only a student in the eyes of anyone who came across him. My limited acquaintance with him, however, would soon prove him to be the most puzzling enigma of a man I have yet or since come across.

It was a Friday in the December of 1878, as I remember, when I entered into one of the hospital's dissecting-rooms for the purpose of my current research. I had procured one of the facility's cadavers for the purpose of my experimental autopsy, the results of which I was to report to a superior for verification. The high-ceilinged lab was bright with the afternoon light, which glinted off the myriad of glass test tubes and jars that were scattered about the long tables. The room itself, however, was utterly deserted and I moved to the corner of the room where my subject lay to commence my work in peace.

I had made considerable progress after half an hour when I came upon a puzzling discovery.

"What the devil have you got there?" I muttered to the deceased as I espied a tiny object buried in the man's throat.

"Perhaps our friend met with a curious end," came a sudden voice behind me.

I whirled on my heel and beheld a tall, young man with a thin face and frame, whose intent gaze had been fixed on my object of study. He smiled genially at my obvious surprise. "I did not wish to startle you, my dear fellow, but your conversation caught my attention."

I blinked, still perplexed by the man's sudden presence in the laboratory. How was it that I had not heard him enter?

"Pardon me, sir, but-" I began.

"May I ask what is it that you have found?" he pressed eagerly, stepping toward the table. He circled about the body and halted at the head, leaning down to observe the area I had been studying.

"I do not know. I have not extracted it," I replied haltingly, still unsure of what I was to do about my new visitor.

He made no reply but continued his examination of the subject's throat for a few moments more, then stepped away from the table with a heavy sigh.

"I'm afraid it is simplicity itself," said he in a sullen voice.

"You mean his death?"

"But of course."

"From what I have seen, I would believe him dead of natural cause," I declared, removing myself to a nearby sink to wash.

"Murder is not natural cause," rejoined my visitor casually.

"Murder!"

"My dear sir," said he, motioning me to the table once more. "The victim can tell you himself!"

"And what does he say?" I asked dubiously, returning to face the stranger opposite the table.

"He was entangled in a vicious fight with another. His murderer was right-handed and committed his crime in the late evening. Our man died of strangulation on the street, where he was beaten and then left to be found."

I stared at my visitor in amazement. "Surely you jest, sir."

"I would never make light of such a matter," he replied gravely.

"Then you must have witnessed the deed."

"I knew nothing of this man before now."

"But how could you possibly know such details?" I asked, my bewilderment still growing.

"Through the process of observation," said he, a hint of a knowing smile upon his lips. "You may find the matter to be quite simple if I were to explain it."

I was suddenly very curious to know how this man could know so much of an event he claimed to have never seen. I never boasted myself to be an exceptional student of the sciences, but surely I knew better than this stranger, who had but briefly examined the body. Surely one could not merely glance upon something and cause conjectures to become irrefutable evidence.

"I wish to know how you came by such theories," I replied more confidently. "Perhaps I may find some fault in them."

My companion chuckled, his gray eyes glinting. "Not theories, my dear fellow, _facts._ I fear you may be hard-pressed to disprove them."

He moved again to the head of the body and retrieved a probe from the tray of instruments nearby. "It is the remnants of a tooth that you discovered in his throat, which indicates a vicious blow to the mouth." Here he opened the dead lips with the instrument to reveal several gaps in the top row of teeth.

"The strangulation?" I prompted, determined to remain unaffected by this demonstration.

"The bruises about the neck," he replied, pushing the skin back into place and indicating a series of faint markings about the throat.

"But right-handed?"

He smiled and beckoned me to lean closer. "Here! Two thumb prints, but one is distinctly fainter than the other. The man must have been assaulted from the front, after the blow to his mouth. His murderer clutched his neck with both hands, but invariably pressed harder with his right, as it was his stronger hand."

"Remarkable," I muttered, looking at my companion with fresh wonder. "And how did you conclude the murder to have been committed in the nighttime?"

"Ah, that is more of a conjecture," he admitted. "Though I may point out an area of chafing about the neck, where the scarf was pulled and then forcibly ripped from him. The night may have prompted him to wear such attire, as the evenings of late have been bitterly cold."

"It's extraordinary!" I breathed, thoroughly astonished at this simple explanation of events. "Though very plain the way you explain it. I cannot imagine how I missed such obvious signs."

"It is but mere deduction," insisted the stranger, replacing the tool on the tray and washing his hands of the matter in the sink.

"I never thought men could do such things, Mr.-" It was here that I remembered I had neglected to inquire his name.

"Sherlock Holmes," replied the man, taking my hand in a genial handshake. "A pleasure to meet you-"

"Jack Stamford," I replied quickly, smiling back. "A most ingenious gift you have, Mr. Holmes."

"I fear our society rather underestimates the power of observation," said Holmes quietly. "It proves most useful in understanding the machines of crime. But if you will excuse me," he added, breaking from these thoughts as he strode toward the door. "I must return to my work." And with a nod of farewell, he was gone.

What Sherlock Holmes's studies were particularly, I would never know for certain. At times I would not see him about the hospital for several months, but on the occasions in which he was present to conduct his work, he would stay until the odd morning hours, poring tirelessly over a microscope or mixing various chemicals to gain some extravagant reaction. I did not see Holmes often, and since that first day in the laboratory our paths crossed only a few times in the years that followed.

It was two years later that I was shocked to find that Holmes's research had taken a bizarre turn. Earlier in the day I had forgotten at item of importance in one of the dissecting-rooms and had returned to retrieve it when I beheld him dealing blows with a stick to one of the dissection subjects.

"Holmes!" I cried, standing frozen in the doorway. "What the devil are you doing?"

"It is a test," he replied slowly. He continued his experiment in silence, utterly unaffected by my sudden interruption.

"You must be quite mad!" I exclaimed, still in shock.

"Silence, Stamford, and let me be," Holmes muttered, scribbling a few notes on a scrap of paper and taking up the stick once more.

I strode forward and firmly grasped his arm before the next blow fell. "Not until you tell me what this horrid business is all about."

He smiled as he lowered the stick. "I am observing how the body may still bruise postmortem," he said simply, as if it were a perfectly normal experiment to conduct in a laboratory.

"Really, Holmes, your overt fascination with the circumstances of death is positively abhorrent," I retorted distastefully.

"Not death, Stamford, _crime_," Holmes rejoined emphatically, his gray eyes lighting up at the word. Then he was eagerly moving about the table, gesturing here and there with his stick and explaining to me the implications of such research in a case of murder. How bruises and discolorations of the skins could prove circumstances and intent, even long after the victim had been deceased. He continued enthusiastically relaying to me his discoveries in their fullest detail, but I was soon lost in his elaborate theories and observations on the matter.

Instead, I stood watching him and pondered what course of application he could possibly apply these methods to. That Holmes was gifted with a rare knowledge of peculiar things was certain, and his desire for meticulous accuracy was an admirable standard for any chemist, though I would not restrict him solely to the role. A student he certainly was not, but was at his leisure to study the subjects that held his interest most, for whatever purpose they might serve him in the future.

New Year's Day of 1881 found myself again in the wing of the hospital Holmes most frequented. Upon entering the chemical laboratory, I found him intently examining the array of test tubes before him, and he mentioned to me something of hemoglobin and a test for bloodstains, though I was too distracted by my own work to pay him much attention. The next hour was spent in a strict silence, as each of us were left to our own thoughts and study.

Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes gave a heavy sigh and looked up from his work. I was curious to see him in so melancholy a mood, and wondered what might have gone awry with the experiment before him.

"It is a pity, Stamford," Holmes groaned, "that I can find no one to split the cost of a suite of rooms I have most recently found."

I could not help but smile at the thought. Sherlock Holmes would prove a most peculiar roommate, indeed! My amusement turned to pity, however, as he seemed genuinely disappointed at this minor failure of his.

"Where are the rooms?" I prompted, endeavoring to continue the conversation.

"Baker Street, but I'm afraid the amount is too much for me to lodge alone."

"I am sorry, Holmes," I said earnestly. "You could find no one at St. Bart's to agree to the offer?"

"None," my companion answered, and then smiled despite himself. "And I would hardly think you could tolerate my abhorrent taste in crime any longer, Stamford, and so I did not ask it of you."

I could not help but laugh at this assertion, true as it was. "Perhaps someone shall come along," I urged.

"Perhaps," my companion answered distractedly, as he had already returned to his microscope.

Another half hour passed and I rose, feeling the need for fresh air and a walk. As I strode to the door, Holmes called out, "A moment, Stamford!"

"What is it, Holmes?"

"I might suggest you take a hansom cab to your destination, instead of traversing the way partially by foot, as you quite plainly did this morning along Newgate Street. The afternoon promises rain."

I did not pause to ask how he could possibly have known this, but tipped my hat with a smile and passed from the room. I knew he had his methods, but I was too impatient to be about my business to remain and inquire as to what they were.

I hailed a hansom cab outside St. Bart's and went as far as Piccadilly Circus, where I then decided a walk about the streets would do me some measure of good. I had not yet reached the Criterion Bar when I spotted a face that struck me as familiar. For a moment I desperately tried to place it, and then it came: Dr. John Watson! I had been a dresser under him some time back at St. Bart's, before he had obtained his degree and left for war. I strode eagerly across the street and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned with a look of surprise, then relief, as if he had been searching for a familiar face.

"Jack Stamford!" Watson exclaimed, wringing my hand in a vigorous handshake. "How are you, old fellow?"

"I'm quite alright," I laughed, somewhat surprised at his enthusiastic greeting.

Watson asked me to lunch, to which I was most inclined to agree, and we set off at once for the Holborn in a hansom cab.

It was later, however, when I inquired of how he was faring that he gave a most extraordinary answer. Coincidence, I might have called it, if I believed in such things.

"Looking for lodgings," Watson was saying, which caught my attention at once. He sipped his wine and looked sadly across the table at me. "Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price."

It was a very strange thing indeed that two men had told me of their want of accommodations on the same day. I smiled to myself and looked across the table at my friend.

Watson did not know Sherlock Holmes yet.


End file.
